Dragon Justice (10 page)

I dropped my coat and case by the door and stared at the
antique red lacquered Chinese chest, not even noticing its usually soothing
gaudiness. Me, who’d been direct like an arrow my entire life, now treading
water. Feeling sorry for myself. Lonely. Oh, hell. When had I turned into
this?

*trouble?*

Venec again, and this time I was caught so off guard I didn’t
shunt away my frustration or confusion but let it flow through the Merge,
answering him not with words or even emotions but the utter sense of
helplessness.

I was never helpless. Ever.

His response was immediate and totally unexpected: *come down
here*

* * *

Wren Valere was not often stumped. Her entire career was
based on three things: the ability to move without being seen, the ability to
plan every move down to the last detail, and the ability to think on her feet
when the details went sideways.

Now she was faced with a young woman who watched her the way a
mouse would a cat, never blinking, never losing track of where she, Wren, was.
She had been given no time to plan, and she had absolutely no idea what to do
with her life suddenly turned sideways.

It wasn’t that Wren didn’t have sympathy for the girl: she did.
Lured away from her home by a would-be cult leader and discarded when she didn’t
fit their parameters for creating a coven…because she already
had
magic… It would be funny, if it wasn’t so sad. And
if she weren’t so obviously in desperate need of a mentor.

Not six months ago, Wren had told Sergei that she might
consider being a mentor. In the aftermath of retrieving the Talent the Silence
had stolen, looking at those brave, terrified teenagers and knowing that she
could make a difference…

Not every Talent mentored. Nobody would think less of her if
she didn’t: she had given more than enough to the
Cosa
already. But…her mentor had saved her life. That was no exaggeration; he
had taken in a scared, criminally minded child and given her guidance,
understanding, and the strength to deal with the hand Life had dealt her. Her
mother, a total Null, had never been able to understand her daughter; her father
had never been in the picture: there was only John Ebenezer.

The day Neezer had disappeared, Wren thought her life was over.
She had learned, years later, that he was alive, wizzed beyond recall to human
society, that if he saw her again he would be driven by his madness to kill
her…and he still protected her. Because that’s what a mentor did.

And none of those thoughts helped with the present-day
scenario. Ellen sat quietly on her sofa, her knees carefully together, her
shoulders back but somehow still managing to give the impression that she was
hunched over, as though she were expecting a blow. And yet, her expression
wasn’t that of someone who had been abused; Wren had seen enough of those over
the years. No, Ellen was…watchful, careful, but not afraid. Not of The Wren,
anyway.

“So. What the hell am I going to do with you?”

“Bonnie said I needed to be trained. That I was dangerous.”
Ellen sounded as if she wasn’t sure what she thought of that idea, trying to
decide if being dangerous was a bad thing or a good thing.

“Bonnie’s right. Last time I was around someone untrained, they
set fire to the restaurant we were in.”

Ellen’s round eyes got even wider at that, but she didn’t scoff
or even ask how. She might not know anything about current, Wren decided, but
she’d seen enough to know that more was possible than she’d been told.

That was as good a place as any to start.

Only not just right now. Not when Sergei had just handed her a
job that needed to be done right away.

“All right. If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it. Do you
have a place to stay?”

Ellen shook her head.

“Anything other than the clothing on your back?”

A slight hesitation, as though she were considering something,
then another shake of the head.

“Anyone you need to tell where you are?” Wren already knew the
answer to that, but she wanted to hear Ellen say it. Or shake it, as the case
may be. Another head shake, this one immediate and definite.

“Right. The only problem is, I was about to head out on a job
when you showed up, and no, I can’t take you with me,” she said, although Ellen
hadn’t shown any signs of asking that—or, indeed, anything.

Bonnie hadn’t told her much, but Wren could tell that the girl
in front of her was already on overload. Ellen had to be kept calm, and ideally
far away from the casual use of current until she could deal with it—and
herself—better.

“I can’t just leave you here,” she said, running through her
options. If this had been a normal situation, a Null girl sitting on her sofa
with those lost, unblinking eyes, Wren would have called her mother. Marguerite
Valere was at her best with someone to fuss over. Unfortunately, she was useless
when it came to the
Cosa,
being unable to see the
faint glimmer of supernatural even when it stood directly in front of her—as PB
had, on occasion, trying not to be hurt that his best friend’s mother didn’t
acknowledge him.

How anyone could manage to say good-morning to a four-foot
tall, white-furred, red-eyed demon and not actually see it, Wren could not
comprehend, but her mother had done so, more than once. That meant that while
there would be no current-use there, there would also be no understanding or
compassion for Ellen’s fears. Not good.

She might have called Bonnie, but Bonnie had been the one to
hand the problem over. And there wasn’t anyone else she felt confident enough to
ask: her job tended to bring her around unsavory sorts, not trustworthy.
Tree-taller would have been exactly the person, but—the pain of his death still
haunted Wren, years later. And his widow wanted nothing to do with the
Cosa,
after that.

Trustworthy…

Wren eyed Ellen again, thinking hard. “Oh, hell, you’re going
to have to meet him at some point, anyway.”

“Who?”

The first question she’d asked, and she didn’t hesitate in
asking. Wren thought that was a good sign.

“My partner.”

It was Monday, so he would be doing inventory at the
gallery—the second gallery, she corrected herself. The larger one downtown was
now being handled by his assistant, and Sergei had rented a space uptown,
featuring smaller, three-dimensional art, rather than the large paintings and
sculptures Didier Gallery Downtown showcased.

“He’s…like us?”

Wren laughed. “Not hardly. He’s a Null—without magic— but he
can sense it, and he knows all about the fatae, about all the
Cosa Nostradamus
. He came to it late in life, though—”
when he was in his twenties, recruited by the anti-magic group the Silence,
which he had later helped destroy “—and he knows what it’s like to be utterly…
confused.”

“Confused.” Ellen smiled, and Wren was struck by what a sweet
smile it was, not at all cynical or bitter. “Yeah, confused about sums it up,
right now.”

Wren smiled back at her, unable to not. “Well, we can take care
of some of that, anyway. And you’ll like Sergei. Everyone does. That’s part of
his annoying charm.”

They would get along fine; Sergei would make sure of that, and
keep her away from current without dismissing her fears. And then, when Wren got
back from Philadelphia, she’d figure out how the hell she was going to teach a
totally untrained twenty-something everything she should have learned when she
was thirteen.

Chapter 7

“Come down here.”

That suggestion—order?—had left me flat-footed and a little
taken aback. That voice had been Ben, not Venec. I didn’t know how I knew, but I
did. And it was a really important distinction. We had been doing this dance for
so long, keeping work and personal separate, trying not to screw a really good
working relationship with, well, screwing.

Except that excuse hadn’t been valid for a while now. The rest
of the pack knew. Venec had never once slipped in favoritism, and nobody seemed
to expect that he would. So the only thing holding us back was, well, us.

Venec wasn’t in the city, he wasn’t working, and I had time
off, and he was doing something not PUPI-related and…

And I didn’t know what any of it meant, or if this was
incredibly stupid or finally smart, but there was a little giddy feeling at the
base of my spine that I hadn’t felt in too damn long, and I knew better than to
poke at it like it was trace. It wasn’t trace. It wasn’t job-related. This
wasn’t the Merge—or, okay, it was always the Merge between us. But it was us,
too. Making our own decisions, without the usual urgency or stress of the job to
complicate our reactions.

I could have said no. The Bonnie of— Hell, half an hour ago, I
would have said no. Caught up in that perfect storm of self-pity and frustration
and helplessness, my practical, pragmatic side didn’t stand a chance.

I threw a change of clothes, my toiletry kit, and my notebook
into my overnight bag before I could change my mind, and headed for Penn
Station.

An hour later I was on a train down to Philly, grabbing a
window seat so I could watch the Jersey landscape go by, alternating stretches
of greenery and Metroparks. The car I was in was only three-quarters full, and I
was able to keep the seat next to me clear—no risking some unsuspecting
businessman’s laptop or cell phone, or having to deflect unwanted conversation.
The feel of electricity humming through the train soothed, letting my brain
generate the mental equivalent of white noise: not thinking, not learning or
doing, just being.

I was almost asleep when the first tremor of kenning shivered
down my spine, invading my brain.

A dragon, circling overhead, tarnished
pewter against a purple-black sky. Fire, raining down like meteors, falling
past a metal structure ringed with St. Elmo’s fire....

That was past. I let the memory-image go, my heartbeat not
changing, my thoughts undisturbed. The dragon had been on our side, nominally,
and we’d all survived the Battle of Burning Bridge, cooled the flames that
threatened to destroy the city last year. It was all good.

The kenning wasn’t done with me, yet.

Dragons, three of them now, circling in a
pattern that I should recognize against a sky the bruised purple of a
tornado warning. The pattern left faint traces against the sky, etching
itself and then fading before I could grasp it. I had no idea what it was,
no sense of familiarity and yet I knew I should know it.

Then my awareness slipped, a dizzying dive into fire, burning
deep and low this time, a forge that could smelt the earth’s heart. A
splattering of red…blood?
Blood everywhere, thick and
heavy, coating the flames, dripping down slowly, drying in impossible
shapes, pulsing like a heart…

Somewhere in the depths of my mind I was disturbed by the
surreal intensity of the visuals, but most of me was still caught in the
fuguelike calm, unable to do more than watch, observe, let the kenning wash
through me however it would.

*too late* A whisper like dry leaves and rattling shells, the
scraping of talons gently across a chalkboard, a threat-or a regret—implicit in
the words. Awareness shifted again, a dragon’s wings coming down with a gust of
fetid air, enfolding, releasing. The flash of something moving out of the corner
of my eye, unseen, the rattle of bones, and a wisp of fog like congealing
unease.

And then it was gone.

I hadn’t realized my eyes closed until they opened again,
looking out at the sidings of whatever station we were pulling out of. Princeton
Junction flashed by on an old-fashioned wooden sign. Across the aisle, a man
with a square, open-looking face had turned to look at me, his expression caught
between worry and hesitation, like he thought I needed help, but wasn’t sure he
wanted to get involved.

I looked away, not sure what to tell him.

An hour left until Philadelphia, the conductor announced, while
I wiped a crust of sweat off the ridge of my nose and reached for the bottle of
water on the pull-down tray in front of me. My throat tasted like ash and sour
lemon, and my eyes itched, like I’d been staring into smoke.

I didn’t like this. I didn’t like it at all. Kenning was so
damn vague, but I knew better than to dismiss it. Something was coming. But the
signals were so cloudy and confused, shaped by my past fears. Was the warning
aimed at me specifically, or was I only one of many affected? Should I be
warning others? Were the dragons real or a metaphor?

Without my scrying crystals—packed in their box at home—or any
way to focus myself that wouldn’t draw way too much attention in public, I
couldn’t do anything except accept the warning and keep on keeping on.
Carefully.

Out of habit, I reached for my notebook and started writing as
much as I could remember. It wasn’t much, a few paragraphs of images and
feelings, but when I looked at it, done, I got the same sense of quavery unease
I’d felt at the start of the kenning. Something was coming. Something dangerous,
probably bad—because the kenning never bothered to bring me good news, damn
it—and soon. Near me. Involving me.

If I hadn’t been on the train, I might have gone into fugue
state and reached for more, but if I were responsible for the third rail
splurting out, even if none of my fellow passengers knew, I’d feel guilty all
week. Plus, god knows how long it would take them to fix things.

I stared at my notebook, then slapped it shut. So much for
relaxing. The rest of the trip I sat, my muscles tense, staring out the window
at the darkening landscape but not really seeing anything. When the train
finally arrived at 30th Street Station, I grabbed my bag and got off the train,
moving with the flow of humanity, be-suited business folk and knapsack-slung
teenagers, and me somewhere in-between.

And then Ben was there, leaning against a wall, waiting for me,
and it was utter instinct that made me drop my bag and wrap my arms around him,
feeling his arms pull me in closer, hearing his heart thumping inside his chest,
feeling his sense of welcome and comfort enfold me, the Merge humming in
satisfaction, and I couldn’t even bring myself to be annoyed because it felt so
right.

I knew why we’d fought it. I knew why we’d fight it again,
eventually. But right now…I needed this. So I took it.

“Do we need to talk about whatever it was?” His voice was a low
growl, felt as much as heard, and I shook my head, knowing he would pick up on
my reluctance even if he didn’t feel the gesture.

“Not yet.”

It was coming. It involved me, if not us. But, selfishly, right
then, I wanted to be off-duty. I didn’t want to be Venec and Torres, just Bonnie
and Ben.

Venec would have pushed. Ben let it be.

* * *

The last time I’d been in Philadelphia I’d been
fourteen: J and I meeting one of his old friends for dinner. I suppose I should
have been playing tourist, gawking out the window of the cab we’d gotten outside
the station, but Ben had his arm around my shoulders and I turned my head into
his chest and listened to his heartbeat until we got to the hotel. It was
nice—not fancy, just a basic chain hotel, but clean and well decorated. Ben took
my bag—a leather carry-all I’d had since I was in high school—and handed it over
to a bellhop with instructions to take it up to his room. Huh.

Well, yeah.

“You need to eat something.”

It wasn’t a question, and—testing the shakiness of my knees—he
wasn’t wrong. After this morning’s adventure I felt like a wrung-out rag. I’d
forgotten to eat. Again.

He took my arm and headed toward the little restaurant off to
the side of the lobby, where Ben ordered a pot of coffee and the sandwich
special from a waitress who looked like she was killing time before Hollywood
called. I stared at him across the table, resisting the urge to fiddle with the
napkins or count the cubes of sugar in the little bowl next to a small vase of
real flowers, something with tiny pink-and-white petals.

I’d come down here not really thinking about why I was coming,
telling myself that I was getting away from the city so I didn’t spend my time
off sulking in my apartment or prowling areas that would only remind me that I
wasn’t working, but the realization that there was only one hotel room brought
it all back in a rush. Benjamin Venec. My boss. The other side of the Merge. Guy
who could set my entire body to thrumming at the worst moment, and whether it
was the Merge or just natural hormones really didn’t matter anymore, because it
was going to happen no matter what.

The guy who had invited me down here, for reasons of his
own.

And all I kept wondering was “If we have sex, and satisfy the
Merge, will it stop?”

I wasn’t sure what I wanted the answer to be.

“So. Why are you down here?” I was sort of embarrassed I hadn’t
asked him that in the first place, or when I got off the train, but in my
defense the kenning had distracted me, and then the feel of his arm around my
shoulders had distracted me further. But now he was on the opposite side of the
table, and I was suddenly curious as hell.

His body language was calm and collected, but the buzz I was
picking up told me he was about half an inch from playing with the napkins, too.
Good. I’d hate to think I was the only one nervous here.

“A side job. I’m working with a local museum, training their
people how to detect and avoid a current-based heist.”

“Oh. Cool.” If he did his job right, that would be one less
eventual case that PUPI would get, but I couldn’t really see anything wrong with
that. It wasn’t like there wasn’t enough crap that we did get called in on.

The waitress delivered our sandwiches, and I stared at the
plate, not sure if I was actually hungry or not. I decided I was and took a
bite. A second later, I was ravenous, and all other thoughts were pushed to the
side while I cleaned my plate.

Ben ate about half his sandwich but kept talking. “The guy I’m
working for, he’s smart, one of the best security experts I know. He worked for
an insurance company for years. That’s where I met him. They just got funding to
upgrade, and he wants to do it right. A museum with an aging security system is
one that doesn’t get offered topnotch collections on loan.”

The fact that Ben was actually letting me in on his life
outside the office…working on the stuff he’d done before… Yeah, I wasn’t going
to say anything that might screw that up or shut him down. “You do a lot of work
like that?”

He shrugged, a casual gesture that said nothing. “Used to.
Safer than tracking down bail-jumpers and runaways, and pays better. Museums are
pretty savvy about this sort of thing. Most of them have been hit more than once
by thieves working with current. They may not know what it is, exactly, but
their boards want it dealt with, and so someone, somewhere, knows enough to call
a specialist.”

“And that would be you.”

“Among a few others, yeah.” He looked at me then, and the
crooked grin I’d come to know too well appeared, and the awkwardness
disappeared. “And you. Wanna learn the trade?”

Oh, hell, yeah.

* * *

Not too far away, a black sedan car slid to the curb on
a street off Logan Square. As a woman emerged from the backseat, the sky
changed, the quality of light darkening slightly as though a shadow had passed
overhead, although the sky remained clear. She looked up, her dark eyes
squinting as she tried to decipher some invisible shape, sense the form of the
thing shadowing her as the sun set.

The man who had gotten out with her stopped, waiting. “Is
something wrong?”

She shook her head, not bothering to look at her companion. If
she could not sense anything, he would be unlikely to do so. Aden Stosser was
not one to suffer from apprehension or second thoughts, but it did occur to her
that the shadow overhead could simply be hesitation over what she was about to
do.

“This is your fault, Ian,” she said quietly. “If you hadn’t
gotten in so deep, if you’d listened to me, instead of insisting that the world
dance to your tune, I wouldn’t be here now.”

“Ms. Aden.” Her companion waited, patient. “If you are having
second thoughts, now would be the time to act on them. Once we enter the
building, the—”

“The die is cast, the Rubicon crossed. Yes, I know.” Sorcerers
awaited her. Even the thought made her gut clench. The name they chose might be
pretentious, but their power was not. She would not be taking on an ally of
equal or lesser power, but making supplication to a stronger force—one that
might ask much of her in return.

Yet, sorcerers policed themselves, allowing none outside their
group to have a say in their doings. Surely such Talent would be sympathetic to
her cause, be willing to put some small amount of their power at her
disposal?

She had tried to talk Ian out of this madness and failed. She
had tried to stop them and failed. More than half the Councils had given their
approval, and even overseas, they were beginning to rumble with talk of a
similar organization.

Already, the fabric of their society was shredding. If these
sorcerers agreed to cage Ian, take away his glamour, his persuasive
abilities…she could talk sense back into the Council and stem the tide.

She firmed her jaw and smoothed back her dark red hair. “Let’s
go.”